


The Cloak, the Stone, and the Wand

by amordantia



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Timeline, Character Study, Crossover, Dark Magic, Death Eaters, Dementors, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Horcruxes, Legilimency, M/M, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Missing Persons, Occlumency, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, The Deathly Hallows, Wands, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 07:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17576549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amordantia/pseuds/amordantia
Summary: War had torn so many families apart, friends into rivals, and chaos into every part of Europe. With Voldemort gaining more and more power and the Golden Trio on their own mission while Credence, Percival, and a young wizard are on theirs, nothing and no one is safe.





	The Cloak, the Stone, and the Wand

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wicked Boys](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597110) by [Lynds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynds/pseuds/Lynds). 



> Well, I'm back! Not necessarily with the story I was working on, but with this work.
> 
> I would like say I'm aware this is not everyone's flavor of fic, so if you're put off by Original Characters (OCs), turn back while you can (joking!).  
> Really, though, I get it. If you're in for a bit of war torn angst with a splash of slow-burn romance and everything going wrong (and you don't mind OCs, of course), stay a while and enjoy!  
> A reminder that this story isn't Beta-read and may have some mistakes, so sorry about that. Also a reminder that I'm not a practiced writer and therefore my writing can be sub-par.
> 
> If you're still not put off by any of this and wanna try something new (or indulge in something old!), read on!  
> Note that I won't recount each event as it happens in the first few chapters of the Deathly Hallows book.

The Weasley home was relatively calm. The pots and pans in the kitchen clamored and the sharp smell of spices permeated the air from Mrs. Weasley's cooking. Though her family resided in the sitting room, seemingly jovial and joking, there was still a heavy atmosphere that clung above them at the loss of Mad-Eye Moody and the uncertainty of the whereabouts of other friends and family.

It seemed habitual now for Mrs. Weasley to glance every so often at the Weasley family clock, though the arrows didn't move from the danger label.

Fred and George could be heard laughing with their siblings in the next room. Mrs. Weasley absentmindedly listened as she set a pot cooking and flicked her wand to cut vegetables.

As she entered the sitting room, she could have sworn she heard a faint pop where the Apparation site of their home lay, but ignored it in favor of telling the children to wash up.

She wasn't mistaken, however, since the next moment brought Mr. Weasley tumbling into the house in a frenzy.

“Molly! Molly, we've got--” He turned to look behind him, ”It's an emergency!”

The air in the room shifted from pleasant to worried before Mr. Weasley had finished his sentence. Everyone had drawn their wands, only to lower them when a finely dressed gentleman entered with the arm of a younger man around his shoulders.

“Percival!” Mrs. Weasley cried, taking in the wizards’ haggard appearances. Percival, the man in the fine suit, appeared worn. His white shirt clung pathetically in the places it had been ripped while his usually neat black hair fell messily around his face. The younger man didn't appear much better; his own shirt, though just a muggle t-shirt, lost its blue color to the deep red of blood soaking into it. His white face had been drained of color so that he seemed more like a ghost than a living man.

Mrs. Weasley waved them over, Mr. Weasley aiding Percival in escorting the young man to the now empty couch.

The previous occupants, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny, stood a short distance away with varied looks of shock and worry upon their features.

Mrs. Weasley lifted the young man's faded flannel from his arms, pulling his shirt from his torso and shaking her head solemnly when she heard him take a sharp breath.

“I know, dear, I know it hurts,” she murmured, slipping the garment off the rest of the way.

She surveyed the damage to find three long, jagged cuts on the left side of his torso. They curled, ugly and bleeding, from his stomach to his ribs. Mrs. Weasley drew a calming breath before casting a wordless cleaning charm, though the wounds continued to bleed.

She summoned bandages, a potion for recovering blood from intense loss of it, and a salve to aid in healing.

She began muttering a soft incantation to heal the wounds, using unseen magic to press upon the cuts in an effort to stifle blood flow.

“Ssh, it's alright, dear, quite alright,” she said softly when she heard groans of pain from the wounded man. She administered the blood loss potion, giving it to him in tiny amounts.

Hermione turned her worried gaze to Mrs. Weasley before asking, “Will he be alright, Mrs. Weasley?”

Mrs. Weasley cast a worried glance at Desmond, who looked just as deathly pale as before.

“I hope so, Hermione,” she replied, though there was a certain quiet sadness in her voice as she added, “But I think he'll be left with scars.”

She thought she caught a hissing breath from Percival behind her, but paid no mind as she continued to clean Desmond's wounds and apply the healing salve.

* * *

 

The Weasleys and Harry, Hermione, Ron, Credence and Percival, all took turns watching Desmond as he lay motionless on the couch. Long after the evening had bled wholefully into nightfall and Mrs. Weasley forced Percival to eat dinner, only a hushed few conversations were held in the sitting room. Any attempt to capture the previous pleasant atmosphere had been lost as there was a clear fear for Desmond, though Mrs. Weasley smiled at Ginny's comment that he seemed to have more color in his cheeks.

Mrs. Weasley took the opportunity, at the mention of her patient, to badger Percival with questions he had previously avoided through changing the subject, admitting exhaustion (though he refused at the offer of sleeping upstairs), and, at one point, flat out ignoring her.

Now, though, she was even more persistent. “Please, Percival,” she began for nearly the hundredth time, ”Please tell us what happened.”

Percival’s gaze swept from the sleeping form of Desmond. Though his clothes were now clean and mended, the blood gone from his hands and his hair swept mostly back into its neat style, he still seemed haunted.

Another beat passed before he spoke, his voice raspy from disuse, ”We went to his father's.”

Everyone waited for him to say more, but the silence didn't break until Mr. Weasley asked, ”Finnegan? Finnegan Murphy?”

Percival nodded, ”Desmond wanted to see if…” He drew a shaking breath, his eyes falling from Mr. Weasley to Desmond, “If Finnegan was alright. We Apparated and.. the house was in shambles. The door off its hinges, everything inside shredded and thrown about. They searched the residence from the looks of it, but I couldn't tell if there was a sign of a struggle. There was only a photograph on the kitchen floor, a picture Desmond swore Finnegan always carried with him, that gave us any clue that he was there before we were.”

He stared, for a time, at Desmond, before continuing, ”All we could do was pick up the picture before Death Eaters were surrounding us. We were ambushed. They cast” ---His voice broke, then, and his normally piercing eyes glazed over as he finished, trapped in a memory no one else could share--- ”They cast a nasty slicing curse at Desmond, caught him in the middle. He caught one, though, cast an incredible confringo!” For a moment, Percival shined with pride, before his face crumpled and darkened, “His buddy, though, he didn't like it.”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a worried glance at the comment, though neither pushed Percival to continue.

Seemingly oblivious to the increased tension in the room, Percival spoke again, overwhelming disdain apparent in his voice, “He cast Crucio on Desmond.”

No one spoke after the admission, everyone lost in their own thoughts until Hermione sat, in a kitchen chair she summoned, next to Desmond.

Ron laid a hand on her shoulder, his own gaze pinched with worry.

The first one to speak was Credence, who had been outside with Ron and Bill hours ago when Percival and Desmond first arrived.

“Mrs. Weasley.. will he really be alright?”

Mrs. Weasley met Credence's eyes, the pain she witnessed making her own heart ache more for these boys, these children, who had been unfairly attacked and separated from their family. She put on a reassuring smile and nodded, “The salve should heal his wounds and I'm sure sleeping will help him. He should be alright to get back on his feet by morning.”

Percival looked like he wanted to say something to the group, who had all gathered in chairs to sit around Desmond, but he refrained and the hoard of Weasleys, friends, and Percival, all lapsed into silence once more.

* * *

 

Through an abundance of arguing with Mrs. Weasley, Percival settled on transfiguring the chair he sat in to a bed to sleep on in the sitting room. Though Ron began arguing a similar point, one stern look from Mrs. Weasley assured his obedience in sleeping in his own room.

He bemoaned his mother's authoritative power to Harry, Hermione, Credence, and Ginny, all of whom had piled in Ron and Harry's room. Hermione easily transfigured plush armchairs for each of them, though Credence and Ginny opted to sit on Harry's bed.

Hermione, who appeared as disappointed as Ron sounded, told him, “Oh, Ron, your mum’s only trying to.. to..” She was, for once, at a loss for words.

Ginny chimed in, “Do what might be best for Desmond? I mean, he might be startled if all of us are there when he wakes up.”

Hermione nodded in agreement, though the worried crease between her eyebrows didn't vanish.

“I'm glad he's back, though,” Credence spoke, to the surprised looks of everyone. He quickly corrected, “Well, no, I mean, I'm not glad he's hurt and that his dad's missing, but it's good to see him. I think he was.. worried last year, even if he didn't really tell any of us.”

Ron shrugged, “I'm happy he's here, too, but you’d figure he'd write us, right? I mean, you don't think it's weird he shows up with that Graves bloke?”

Harry countered his question by pointing out, “Well, maybe, but Graves is a member of the Order. I'm sure Des will explain when he's up and around tomorrow.”

A short silence settled over the group like a stifling blanket, everyone lost in their thoughts.

“He will wake up,” Ron began nervously, “Won't he?”

Ginny replied with a fierceness none of the others quite possessed, “He will. Mum’s good at this, she'll make sure he'll be okay.”

They talked a while longer about safer topics until they turned in for the night.

* * *

 

Morning brought a muffled clatter from the kitchen as Mrs. Weasley arranged dishware for breakfast, bacon slicing itself mid-air and settling in a pan to sizzle. Eggs cracked and spatulas moved on their own, bobbing and turning to cook them. Mrs. Weasley glanced over to the sitting room where Percival lay sprawled on a functional, yet still uncomfortable looking, mattress. His hair lacked any semblance of order, though the lines on his face were softer and less worried; he almost looked peaceful in sleep. Mrs. Weasley turned back to breakfast, piling a plate of freshly made toast on a plate. She was so engrossed in the task that she missed the footfalls of a figure in her kitchen, only noticing when the figure in question sidled up next to her.

“Oh, Merlin! You scared me,” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, Desmond looking somewhat sheepish at her reaction. She narrowed her eyes at him, pointing her wand in a threatening manner, “You should _not_ be up, young man. Go lie down---”

Desmond cut her off, his voice rough from lack of use yet still gentle, “Mrs. Weasley, I'm feeling much better. I just wanted a cup of water.”

Mrs. Weasley's stern demeanor seemed to melt a little at that and she summoned a glass for him, though he caught her eyeing him worryingly from the corner of his eye.

He drank, enjoying the domestic atmosphere in the Weasley home. Realization flooded his veins as if he were drenched in freezing water as he recalled his father's absence and destroyed home. He drained the glass, his eyes swimming with unshed tears that he attempted to push down.

Mrs. Weasley noticed and blessedly didn't ignore him, instead tutting and hugging Desmond.

“He'll turn up, dear, I'm sure of it,” she said soothingly.

He nodded, separating from her embrace when the eggs appeared to be cooked. Desmond cleared his throat and his light blue eyes landed on Percival's sleeping form.

“How is he?” Desmond asked as he noted his glass filling up with orange juice.

Mrs. Weasley followed his gaze, waving her wand to set the bacon and eggs on separate plates. “Worried about you. We had a bit of a row,” she looked slightly embarrassed, “about him sleeping down here for the night, but he proved to be very stubborn.”

Desmond didn't argue that it was more likely Mrs. Weasley didn't press the issue because she was aware of how protective Percival could be. He shoved the sickening reason of why Percival cared down, refusing to think of what happened yesterday.

With breakfast finished, Mrs. Weasley led Desmond to the sitting room, muttering about checking the bandages.

She carefully removed them, pleased to see his previously bloody wounds now healed to closed, pink skin.

Desmond winced as he realized they would scar, Mrs. Weasley seeming to pick up on his thoughts as she softly said, “It was nasty magic, Desmond. Dark magic and sometimes it never heals properly.”

She squeezed his hand reassuringly, both of them sharing a quiet moment where he felt comforted, before shuffling from Percival's bed brought them back to reality.

She patted his cheek, a kind smile on her lips, “Well, you should be able to move freely now. I'll need to apply more salve at lunch. And Desmond, we're glad you're here.”

Desmond only caught the first half of what she said, his focus wholly on the shifting figure of Percival as he sat up.

His heart rate quickened and he restrained himself from shooting up and running to Percival. Desmond did, however, walk to Percival. The latter was blinking sleep from his eyes, his appearance a mess and the peaceful look that graced his features in sleep wiped away. Desmond sat on the bed, his eyes roaming over Percival's form, making a note of the darker circles under his eyes, the pale pallor of his skin, and wrinkled clothes.

“Perce, hey, Perce,” Desmond spoke gently.

Percival's rich, dark eyes landed on Desmond and his face contorted into a look if distress before surveying Desmond, melting into relief at seeing nothing worrying, “Desmond.”

Mrs. Weasley, meanwhile, returned to the kitchen.

Desmond’s tongue felt heavy with a thousand words, none of which reached past his lips. Instead, he clasped Percival's hand and smiled brightly. Percival hesitated for a brief moment before wrapping Desmond in a hug, murmuring light apologies in his hair. The auburn locks were tousled by the embrace, but Desmond didn't mind as he was reassured Percival was solid and real.

Eventually, Desmond broke away from Percival's arms to sweep a hand over the curling marks on his stomach and ribs. There was a quiet sense of fury and sadness, though which was directed at the permanent marks and which at the disappearance of his father, he wasn't sure.

Desmond thought he heard Percival state, “You're beautiful either way,” but wasn't certain as he heard a stampede of footsteps sound from the stairs.

He stood from the bed, casting Percival a last look of relief, before he faced the other residents of the house.

Relief, again, flooded his veins as he noted his friends arriving at the foot of the stairs, all of whom seemed to be surprised, but happy to see him.

Harry tossed him a somewhat baggy green t-shirt, a faded logo of some sort adorning the front. He shrugged it on, the fabric hanging somewhat from his frame, but he was grateful for the garment. He rubbed his tattoo of an Occamy curled around his forearm, a habit he had picked up since receiving the design. The Occamy's wings fluttered in response, its colors shifting subtly from deep purple to a rich blue.

Desmond grinned at them, happiness glowing in his chest as he hugged Hermione and patted Ron on the back, nearly losing his balance at Ron's return of the gesture on Desmond's leaner form.

“Breakfast is ready!” Mrs. Weasley called, “Best to eat outside.”

Everyone poured outside, where an elongated table was set near the garden. A tablecloth floated down on the wood followed by the plates and glasses, chairs scooting to the sides.

The Weasleys and Hermione, Harry, Credence, Desmond, and Percival settled in their chairs. Desmond tried to sit next to Percival to the disagreement of Mrs. Weasley who placed him in between Ron and Ginny. Percival sat between Mr. Weasley and his son, Bill. Through bites of food and conversation of Chaser techniques with Ginny, Desmond caught Percival's eye. They would lock gazes before glancing away and Desmond noticed, after one time, Percival smiled.

Ron was asking about Desmond's new tattoo, suggesting he wanted a giant Thunderbird across his chest, only to cower under his mother's hardened glare.

Desmond laughed at him, Ginny joining in and telling him about the rumor that Ron had a pygmy puff on his chest last year. This resulted in Desmond almost spitting his orange juice out to the amusement of his friends. He wiped his mouth, his cheeks colored red in embarrassment and indignation.

He finished his food, still glaring at them before relenting and talking about why the Holyhead Harpies were the best Quidditch team in the world, referencing earlier mentioned of the team’s brilliant Chaser. Both Ron and Ginny had varied opinions on the matter, with Ginny agreeing that the Harpies were, in fact, the best team, and Ron vehemently arguing that the Chudley Cannons were. Desmond leaned forward and waved at Credence to catch his attention, “Hey, Cree, you’re on my side, right? The Harpies are the better team?”

Credence, who had been speaking with Bill about his work, had flushed at the question, mumbling, “I don't know much about either team, to be honest.” His statement resulted in a thorough lecture on both the Chudley Cannons and Holyhead Harpies. Ginny and Desmond chimed in about the Chaser techniques of both teams as Ginny a Chaser for Gryffindor. Desmond had been a Chaser for Ravenclaw his sixth and seventh year.

To the astonishment of the group, Percival offered his views, “Everyone knows Americans do it better.”

Desmond cracked a smile, his tone hardened as he argued, “No, Perce, the _Irish_ do.”

Ron rolled his eyes, “Since you're Irish, why don't you support the Ballycastle Bats?”

Desmond shot him an incredulous look, “Well of course I support the Bats, but the Harpies are _amazing!_ ”

They argued for a while longer until Mrs. Weasley quickly cut in when it looked like Ginny, Desmond, and Ron might start hexing each other, requesting each of them to help with preparations for Bill and Fleur's wedding. Desmond glanced at Fleur who had exited the table with Bill, conceding they seemed happy and made quite the couple.

Ron bumped him on their way back in, saying in a conspiratorial tone, “Lovely, isn't she?”

Desmond felt a little awkward as he replied, “Well, uh, Ron, you know.. I guess so.”

Mrs. Weasley called to him then, “Desmond, dear, you can help Ron prune the garden if you're feeling up for it.”

Desmond nodded, stepping aside to let Mrs. Weasley assign chores and duties to the others. He drew his beech wand from his left jeans pocket, following Ron into the garden.

* * *

 

The task of pruning the bushes proved dull though easy work and once they finished, Mrs. Weasley assigned them to remove the garden gnomes. They made a game of it after Ron assured Desmond it, “Won't hurt the little buggers.”

When lunchtime rolled around, the Burrow seemed much cleaner, save for the pile of wedding presents wrapped in glittering gold ribbon and blinding white upon the kitchen table.

Mrs. Weasley made overflowing sandwiches for lunch, sitting Desmond on the couch with salve in her hand and no chance of escape.

“I can put it on myself,” Desmond argued, though feebly. There were times, he admitted, when Mrs. Weasley was very intimidating indeed. Before either could say any more on the fact, Percival entered and pulled a chair in front of Desmond, “Molly, please, you've been run ragged by these wedding preparations. Go sit and eat, I'll make sure Desmond gets his..er..salve.”

Mrs. Weasley seemed to contemplate his offer, but relented and entered outside where the table from that morning remained.

When she was out of earshot, Percival grinned at Desmond, “Guess she didn't wanna fight me again, huh?”

Desmond lifted his shirt from his torso as Percival opened the jar, “Guess not. You can be incredibly stubborn when you want to be.”

Percival cast a scourgify on his hands before dipping his fingers in the jar, faltering only a moment before moving forward. Despite Desmond's earlier argument that he was capable of applying the salve, he allowed Percival to spread the slightly cold gel on his scars.

Whether he meant to or not, Percival brushed a freckle next to the scars. His eyes never wavered from Desmond's own, though his lips parted slightly to let a short intake of breath pass.

The moment seemed to lengthen, stretching out for an unrealistic amount of time before Percival drew away, casting another cleaning charm on his hands and capping the jar of salve.

The quiet that blanketed them was cut as someone cleared their throat behind them. Desmond glanced over his shoulder to see George on the foot of the stairs. Before Desmond could explain, George spoke, “Not to worry, I'm not judging. Good idea to put that Disillusionment Charm up though, mate.”

He departed, entering outside for lunch.

Desmond was confused for a second before realizing Percival cast the charm to ensure Mrs. Weasley wouldn't notice. He turned back to face Percival, warmth spreading from his face to his neck.

Percival’s hand, previously on his stomach and chest, now brushed his neck. His thumb swiped against the three freckles on Desmond's skin, though the action did nothing to quell his flush. “Your freckles are so much more noticeable when you're red like this,” Percival noted softly.

Desmond leaned forward, Percival's hand sweeping up to cup his jaw. Desmond leaned into the touch, an inexplicable sense of sorrow and anticipation mingling in his chest. He wanted to say something; he wanted to tell Percival he was sorry for ever visiting his home, sorry for not being quick enough in the duel against the Death Eaters, sorry for getting them into such a big mess when Percival should be with the Order, with skilled Aurors instead of an eighteen-year-old, inexperienced wizard.

Percival, seemingly attuned to his line of thought, told him, “No, hey, don't do that, okay? Don't.. it's not your fault, Des. It never was. We'll find your father, I know we will.”

The moment was broken when they heard someone else coming downstairs. Desmond slid his shirt over his torso again, turning to go outside for lunch. Fred arrived downstairs, glancing at them for only a moment until going outside.

“Suppose you should go eat,” Percival suggested, his hand now resting on his knee, “I've got Order duties to attend to.”

Desmond's lips pressed in a thin line, but he said nothing. Seemingly sensing his unease, Percival took his hand and squeezed it, “I'll send a Patronus if anything comes up. There's no need to worry about anyone else coming after you, not as long as you're here.”

Desmond barely had the strength to meet Percival's dark eyes as he said, “It's not me I'm worried about.”

Percival gave Desmond's hand a last squeeze before standing and speaking with Mr. Weasley outside, exiting through the front door to Apparate where he was needed.

* * *

 

The days bled into one another, Desmond barely able to worry about Percival let alone speak with his friends as everyone frantically hurried to make sure the wedding would be perfect. It wasn't that Desmond didn't like Bill and Fleur, quite the contrary as Bill seemed to bond, even if silently, with Desmond given their scars, and Fleur was charming enough. The only issue formed from lack of contact with Desmond's friends; he wasn't able to write a letter to any of them, not so much as a simple hello, while he was helping Percival during the summer with Order work. Percival hadn't been keen at first, but Desmond was adamant in his desire to help and reminded Percival that he was of age in the Wizarding World, not to mention the muggle one. Only recently had letters stop arriving from Desmond's father, Finnegan. The development worried Desmond to no end as, though he couldn't reply and the letters were encrypted as well as brief, his father managed to send one every few weeks. This eventually led to Desmond arguing with Percival to return home, to a quaint town outside of London where his father and he stayed, only to be ambushed by Death Eaters. The knowledge that his father may be dead or tortured churned Desmond's stomach, even though he tried to quell such thoughts.

For as tedious as they were, the wedding preparations provided a distraction and often left him exhausted enough that he could sleep without waking from nightmares.

Eventually, however, everyone was able to gather together three days before the wedding.

In Harry and Ron's room, Credence, Desmond, Hermione, Harry, and Ron sat. Ron continued casting nervous glances at the door as though Mrs. Weasley might materialize and kick it down.

“So,” Desmond began, “I know it's, well, a rubbish time, but you all have seventh year to look forward to, don't you?”

Ron, Hermione, and Harry appeared forlorn at his comment, prompting a frown from Desmond. Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place, “That's why your mum’s ran us ragged? Well, not only because it takes an awful lot to plan a wedding, but she didn't want any of us talking to each other?”

Hermione hesitated before speaking, “The thing is, she doesn't want _us_ ,” she gestured to herself, Harry, and Ron, “talking to each other. We're not.. we have business to take care of.”

A sadness grew in Desmond's chest, stifling any hope of normalcy in his friends’ lives, “You're.. not coming back, are you?”

Hermione slowly shook her head.

Desmond let out a laugh, though it sounded more broken than he intended, “You won't tell me why?”

Ron spoke this time, “It's nothing against you, mate, it's just.. secret.”

Desmond sighed at that, “The truth is.. I had the same idea as you lot.”

They looked shocked at his admission, so he explained.

“Look, my father.. he's been missing for a long time. Percival’s worried he could have been missing for longer than his letters stopped. We think someone might have intercepted them, pretended to be him maybe.”

Desmond glanced at his three friends, Credence next to him on Harry's bed, “I want to find him. I have to.”

Unlike what he expected, no one argued against his plans, though Hermione looked a little stricken.

“I know,” he began in the hope to soothe any arguments she could use, “It’s really dangerous and there's a chance we won't find him, but.. I feel like, with everything that's happened, no one's safe anymore. I can be alright on my own, I've finished my seventh year, remember? And this war.. this war is tearing people apart. I'm scared. I'm scared for so many people, for you lot. But if there's a chance I can find my father, I'm going to do it. He's given me so much, given my mum so much. If I don't rescue him, who will?”

There was a short silence that followed Desmond's speech, cut by Credence's words, “I want to go with you, Des.”

Desmond, startled, glanced at him, “But.. It's incredibly risky, Cree. You could be tortured or--or even killed!”

Credence frowned, mulling his next words over carefully, “Yeah, but, I don't where my parents are, either. I think they're back in New York, but they wouldn't just leave me here. If Queenie knew where I was, she'd make sure I was safe.”

Desmond was taken aback, Credence's admission of his parents’ disappearance a heavy weight in Desmond's chest. The _Daily Prophet_ reported so many deaths and disappearances each week, or at least they had before the Ministry kept every published article tighter and quieter, he hadn't recalled dwelling on the Kowalski's disappearance. Hot, burning shame ignited in his veins as he realized he should have.

Instead of admitting this, he merely nodded, “You're of age. I won't tell you what to do, only that this is a decision you shouldn't make lightly. It might better for you to go back to Hogwarts for your seventh year.”

He turned back to his other three friends, “I hope you lot know what you're doing. I know you can't tell me, but at least look after yourselves. I'm guessing you didn't break the news to Mrs. Weasley yet?”

Ron paled at the mention of his mother, vigorously shaking his head, “She won't accept it until after we've left.”

* * *

 

Mr. and Mrs. Delacour, along with their younger daughter Gabrielle, arrived. Their arrival brought even less room in the Burrow, though the residents managed. Desmond briefly felt guilty at helping to cause such minimal space, but was waved off by Mrs. Weasley.

While Credence and Desmond slept in a spare room transfigured from a broom closet into a bedroom, relatives and friends arrived for Harry's seventeenth birthday and the wedding. Desmond, after dressing for the day in borrowed clothes from Ron that he had charmed to fit, searched through the worn leather bag he had for Harry's birthday present. His hands wrapping around an incredibly tiny canvas, Desmond pulled it from the old bag and charmed it back to its full size. He showed Credence, who had crafted a bracelet of cream colored orbs for Harry, and his friend gave him a smile and a, “He'll love that, Des, I'm sure of it.”

They caught Harry talking to Hagrid, the half-Giant groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures Professor at Hogwarts. He had gifted Harry what appeared to be a small pouch that he tied around his neck. Harry turned to Credence and Desmond, thanking Hagrid and noticing the items both of his friends held.

“Oh, guys, you didn't have to---” He tried to say, but was only cut off when Credence told him, “Just accept it, Harry. Happy Birthday!”

Harry grinned and took the bracelet, sliding it on his left wrist, “Thanks, Cree, it's---” He glanced questioningly at the orbs as they each changed into a different hue, “Okay, it's magical.”

Credence gestured to the differently colored orbs, “Each of them has a different item inside, only accessed by the wearer. It bonds with your magical signature, and _only_ your magical signature, too. The blue orb can give you bandages and healing salve, the purple a form-fitting outfit for whatever season you’re in, the green a standard broomstick, the yellow an everlasting candle, and orange an enchanted Gryffindor scarf that you'll never lose.”

Harry looked stunned, glancing again at the ominously glimmering orbs. “Thanks, Credence, that's really thoughtful of you,” he managed to say.

“I'm glad I finished it in time,” Credence replied happily.

Harry turned to Desmond then, the latter of which was feeling more and more foolish about his gift. “Harry,” he began awkwardly, “I..er.. hope you don't mind.. I've had the idea for a while and thought it might be nice for you to have it.”

Before he could attempt to hide the painting, Desmond took a deep breath and turned it to face Harry. The painting was charmed to move, depicting their group of friends laughing at Hogwarts, by the Black Lake, on a summer day before anything horrible had happened that previous school year. Desmond had studied the memory closely, capturing each line of everyone's smiles and the way Hermione leaned in slightly to Ron, how Ron bumped Harry's shoulder, how Credence seemed more carefree than ever, and how Desmond looked so at home with the people he cared so much for.

Harry's eyes were misty and his voice trembled slightly as he uttered, “Thank you, Desmond.”

He knew it wasn't much, but Desmond hoped Harry would carry the knowledge that, though they each may be far and struggling with their respective missions, they were all still friends and supported each other.

* * *

 

Harry's birthday dinner had been set up with little interference, though the table Mrs. Weasley set out had to be enlarged further to make room for the Delacours. The purple decorations with golden accents were beautiful and Desmond saw Harry's eyes widen at the gigantic snitch cake brought out by Mrs. Weasley.

Tonks and Remus Lupin had arrived before then, congratulating Harry on his seventeenth birthday and shooting Desmond a disappointed look with a shake of the head at his clearly questioning gaze. The question of Percival's appearance was not strictly spoken aloud, but the answer Desmond received may very well have been shouted. Before he could speak with either, the silvery form of a weasel Patronus appeared before the group, speaking in Mr. Weasley's voice of the Minister of Magic's, Rufus Scrimgeour’s, arrival. Remus and Tonks murmured apologetically to Harry before departing, not a moment too soon as the Minister and Mr. Weasley appeared shortly after. Once requesting the company of Ron, Harry, and Hermione alone, Desmond waited with the others outside, their minds full of curiosity at what the four of them would be discussing.

 

* * *

 

A short time later, voices had risen alarmingly and both Desmond and Credence arose, Desmond grasping his wand in case the Minister decided to do something he'd regret. Mrs. Weasley rushed inside in what Desmond only assumed was an attempt to soothe both parties, but to no avail; Rufus Scrimgeour stormed from the Burrow, a righteous anger upon his features that made his face contort into a hideous expression. Desmond's friends returned, however, unscathed and unworried about what transpired. Everyone ate rather quickly before settling into bed as it was rather late.

As he drifted off to sleep, Desmond hoped the wedding would prove a brief reprieve from war, death, and torture.

 

* * *

 

Everyone was dressed rather smartly the following day, Desmond and the others tasked with escorting guests to seats. The mostly courteous smile gracing Desmond's lips (he had laughed at a joke George had made earlier before returning to a smaller, less amused grin), began to feel rather painful. The slight breeze from outside tickled his short hair, the back trimmed in a square shape and the top in loose, slight waves. Deep blue robes hang elegantly from his slight frame, accenting his eyes and white skin. He briefly wondered what Percival might say at how the color would make his freckles look before shoving the thought down and helping a lovely older couple to their seats.

Soon enough, everyone was seated. Credence and Desmond were placed in the row behind Harry, Hermione, and Ron. After glancing around, Desmond's gaze landed on Percival, on the other side and speaking with a dark skinned young woman. Desmond tried to ignore the flare of white-hot fire that consumed his chest, focusing instead on the way the decorations glittered in the sunlight and the sound of the music as it started.

He looked again at Percival, startled to see Percival looking at him. He smiled before focusing his attention, as everyone else's was, on the bridesmaid and bride herself. Adorned in a glittering gold dress, Ginny and Gabrielle were breathtaking. Followed by them was Fleur, who perhaps had never appeared more beautiful than in that moment. Her white dress sparkled like snow, the tiara atop her head glittering beautifully. She took her place next to Bill and they began their vows, many guests crying throughout the ceremony. A wizard nearby, whom Desmond vaguely recognized, waved his wand and sent a shower of sparkling stars glittering above the couple. The stars floated down to wrap around their fingers and formed wedding bands. Fred and George began to applaud, followed by the other guests as Bill and Fleur smiled and the golden balloons overhead erupted into glimmering birds that sung as they flew. The removal of chairs from the tent followed, replaced by a dance floor and tables. Desmond watched Harry, Ron, and Hermione move to Mr. Lovegood and Luna's table, the latter of which had begun to dance.

Credence and Desmond found a table nearby, the only other occupant an aunt of Ron's Desmond couldn't tell the name of, but who seemed content to watch those dancing and ignore the two wizards who joined her.

Credence accepted a butterbeer from a passing waiter, opening his mouth to say something only to hesitate a moment later. He sipped his drink, his demeanor growing serious as he leaned in closer, “So, Des, when do you plan on starting the search for your father?”

He frowned, considering, “Well, if I can help it, tonight. Are you packed?”

Credence nodded.

“Good, because I wanted to---” Desmond’s words were cut short as a familiar voice asked, “Not plotting something, are we?”

Percival appeared in very flattering deep purple robes. Desmond chuckled at his question, though he seemed prepared to ask another one. He offered his hand to Desmond, asking, “Would you care for a dance?”

Desmond’s heart leapt as he was surprised by the request, but only cast Credence a brief apologetic look before taking Percival's hand and joining him on the dancefloor. The song was slower, then, and painfully sweet. Percival knew it, if him whispering the words was any indication. Desmond laughed, unable to believe a man like Percival could be such a sappy romantic.

“Think I'm funny, do you?” He asked, spinning Desmond around.

A broad smile overcame Desmond's features and he couldn't keep the giddiness from his voice as he replied, “Hilarious, actually.”

Desmond thought he saw, in a more still moment of dancing, Harry, disguised of course, speaking with an old witch, but was swept up in Percival's embrace again and spinning dizzily enough that he didn't pay it any heed. Percival dipped Desmond, low to the ground, and he thought he heard voices sounding suspiciously like Fred and George cheering at them. He pulled Desmond back up to him, drawing him in close.

“I know now’s not really the time, but,” Percival began, “You really ought to think about going somewhere safe. Ideally, you could look for a job somewhere, but I don't think many places are hiring.”

All the happiness that had previously settled comfortably in Desmond was washed away and replaced by frigid fear. “Perce, we've talked about this. Really, we've beaten it to death. You know I want to find my father, not hide out somewhere waiting for him to turn up. I want your help in searching, but I _can_ do it on my own. Or with Credence,” Desmond argued. Percival's expression appeared shocked before it was hidden under an indifferent mask, a look which made Desmond's skin prickle in frustration.

“You dragged Credence into this?” Percival's voice held no small amount of accusation.

Desmond glared at him, “No, he wants to help. He wants to find his parents, too. Who am I to stop him? He's seventeen.”

Percival sighed, “I still want to talk about this, plan it out and.. and make sure we know what we're doing. But, fine, you clearly want this and Credence wants to help. Though he should know I'm going to argue with him. He still has one year of school. I'll help, Desmond, because you can't.. I don't want you to..”

The words seemed stuck in his throat and instead of saying anything more, Desmond rested his head on Percival's shoulder, drinking in the moment of being in the other man's arms at a time when everyone could be happy, if only for a night.

A silvery form caught the eye of many, however, and everyone froze at the presence of a Lynx Patronus, speaking in a rather deep voice, “Scrimgeour is dead, the Ministry has been taken over. Death Eaters are coming.”

Panic began to spread as many guests Disapparated. Desmond faintly heard Percival tell him, “We have to go. Desmond, _we have to go!_ ”

He didn't respond, instead holding tight to Percival’s hand and bracing the terrified crowd to find Credence. He didn't realize he was shouting his friend's name until Credence called, “Desmond! I'm over here!”

They caught each other and Desmond grabbed tightly to Credence's arm, turning a fearful gaze to Percival and feeling an indescribable sadness wash over him as he caught a flash of the rest of his friends and the Weasleys before they Disapparated with a pop.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this chapter, great! Guess I did something right, even if you're only mildly interested.  
> If you didn't, to each their own.
> 
> The concept of a crossover, though, with FB characters and HP arose from the beautiful masterpiece "Wicked Boys" by Lynds, which I implore you to read whether you liked my work or not. Lynds' writing is far superior to mine and absolutely amazing work!
> 
> Go give it a read, you might like it!


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